Didn't Want to Say Goodbye
by CitronPresse
Summary: A visit to New York, an accident, some realizations and having to be okay. One shot. Pairing: Mark/Addison, some Mark/Lexie. Warning: character death.


A/N: the title is taken from the song of the same name by Ari Hest.

* * *

You are sitting on a flight of cold steps (yards from the hospital, but just beyond the grounds, because you need the separation). In your hand is a cup of too-hot, barely palatable, watery coffee you bought just to make yourself forget for a few seconds while you searched for change to pay for it and exchanged pleasantries with the vendor. It didn't work (not even for those few seconds) and the coffee is not worth drinking. The only thing it's good for is warmth and that doesn't even penetrate the first layer of your skin.

You're shivering. You think you might never stop.

Wind blows up your legs (you're wearing a skirt) and sends dusty leaves fluttering around your feet. The skirt (black, pencil) is part of the couture armor you donned. (Crises seem to bring on the empty need for dressing up.) The rest is silk underwear; smooth panty hose; a blouse with a scarf that drapes just right (with billowy sleeves that mask the cast on your arm); a perfect pair of black leather high heels.

He would have liked the high heels, you think. (The shivering gets a little worse.)

If you were honest, you wouldn't be sitting here dressed like this. You wish you had the guts to wear sweats (preferably unwashed and stained; a secular version of sackcloth and ashes). You wish you were curled up in the corner of a couch somewhere hugging a bottle of vodka, instead of clasping your frozen knees, keeping it together (just) on a flight of stone steps. You wish you were brave enough to be a coward and not do the right thing. You wish that the mourning was yours and yours alone, solitary and bellowing and dowsed in tears, instead of something you're about to have to account for and diluted for the sake of others.

You wish it was yesterday and you'd won the silly fight about transportation and taken a cab.

Mark Sloan died this morning at 3.47.

"_You okay now, Addie?"_

"_Yes. Yes, I think so."_

"_Okay then."_

Those were the last words you'll ever hear him say.

* * *

He insisted on the subway. It's _quicker_ and, apparently, _fun_. Now you're sitting on a disgusting seat, trying to avoid the fixed stare of the guy opposite you with tattoos all over his face, compulsively adjusting your position so that no part of your coat touches the grimy fabric for more than a few seconds.

"This is vile," you mutter through your teeth. "New York is vile. Tell me again why I ever thought I liked this place?"

Mark laughs a little, not looking at you. He's watching a blonde girl in a short skirt: standing up, holding on to the rail in a way that is calculated to provoke male attention. She's the kind of cliché you snigger at and feel threatened by all at the same time; the kind of cliché he always liked to cheat on you with. You roll your eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be in love with Lexie Grey?"

"Old times' sake," he shrugs. He turns to you and smirks. "You liked it because _I_ was here," he says, glossing over the fact that he was one of the reasons you left, "and," he winks, "I gave you multiples." You snort. (He did though. You remember it well.) "And, yeah . . . " His eyes soften gray and open, a real smile takes over the corners of his mouth. "I love her."

A remembered feeling catches in your chest. He is a paradox of crass and sweet and it was this, unique to him out of anyone you've ever met, that made you think, once, you might love him.

He grins and half turns his attention back to the girl and your chest un-catches again. "And yet you ogle," you deliver dryly, grateful to have your presence of mind back, then continue bitching. "Why did they have to hold this thing in Manhattan, anyway? Why not Kauai or Bermuda or . . . hell, L.A.? And why," you narrow your eyes, "did they have to invite _you_? There must be hundreds . . . _thousands_ . . . of plastic surgeons doing neonatal palatoplasties these days."

"I –" He turns back to you.

"I _know_. You told me. Four times now." You roll your eyes, this time so he can see you, concealing the fact that (even four times over) you're still impressed. He's found a way to prevent post-op lingual swelling; it makes cleft palate repair safer in young babies; and, honestly, it's a breakthrough. But praising him once is quite enough for his ego.

He shrugs. "I'm _that_ good," he says, happily smug.

You shake your head. "You're that arr-" _arrogant_. You were about to say _arrogant_, but the word hangs unspoken, lingering unnaturally long in your mind while your voice chokes on the extra syllables.

Because between thinking and speaking there was a violent jolt.

Now everything is turmoil, screeching brakes and scraping metal and you're on the floor, knees smarting and bruised, clinging with both hands to the left combat boot of the guy with the tattoos.

Behind you, in the corner of your eye, something electrical sprays out fierce sparks and makes a sputtering fizz. Then the lights go out. There's a groan like a ship going down. You're thrown backwards and your arm crunches excruciatingly as your head and upper body hit the floor.

"Mark?" you call out. But movement and fear and chaos surround you and, if he replies, you don't hear him.

Your breathing quickens. You don't want to panic. You're a surgeon; you're used to emergent situations. But in the OR you're in control, here you have none. There is moaning all around you; cries and pleas that begin and then fall away. Your head is rushing, your ears ringing and you feel as though you're about to be sick. You don't want to give in; you really don't. But you're alone and there's nothing you can do and you're just too afraid to fight to stay conscious.

For a moment, everything mercifully stops.

* * *

"Addison?" It's his voice. Not close enough, but it's his voice.

"Mark?" you croak, then hear a sigh of relief and, after some scrambling, your name again – "Addison," – this time close enough to feel his breath drift warmly past your neck.

His hand touches your arm, clumsily heavy in the dark, and you yelp.

"Sorry."

"I think it's broken," you wince.

He maneuvers to your right side and takes hold of your good arm, gently helping you to sit up. "You okay?" he asks. "Apart from the arm?"

The fractured bones grate beneath the tissue every time you so much as flinch or turn your head. You're sitting in something wet and you don't know whether it's water or blood or your own pee. But there's nothing you can do about any of it, so you shuffle closer to him, biting down against the pain that comes when you move.

He takes your hand and you let your arm brush his. He's cold (you remember him as warm), but he still has that familiar (comforting) scent and he squeezes your hand and gruffly whispers, "It's gonna be okay, Add."

But it's not! Anguish is all around you (quieter and louder, nearer and further away, punctuated but not soothed by words of reassurance) and when a deep, wailing moan comes from just behind you on your left, you can't bear it any longer; can't bear the despair and your helplessness to stop it; and you dissolve into desperate sobs.

Mark just waits, holding your hand, until you have cried yourself out and a wiped-out peace settles between you and you realize, with a pang of clarity, that you haven't asked him how he is.

"Are you? Okay?"

"Headache," he says. "Hit my head, I guess. 'S nothing."

"You should get it looked at," you say automatically.

He gives a soft, dry laugh. "Got your night vision equipment with you, Add?"

You make yourself laugh too (because he's trying) and he says again, "I told you, it's nothing."

* * *

"What do you think happened?" you ask.

"Subway crash," he says.

"Well, that's obvious," you snap, nerves getting the better of you now. You twist against him. "We're useless. We're doctors. We should do something. We're . . ." You start to cry again.

His hand finds your hair and brushes it off your face. "Someone'll come, Add - fire department, paramedics. When they get some lights and equipment down here, we can help."

He goes to put an arm around your shoulders but then hesitates, stopping the reflex for the many reasons it's out of place between you now.

"Please," you say quietly, giving permission to him and to yourself, and he carefully pulls you against his chest.

"It'll be okay," he says.

He sounds so confident, this time you almost believe him.

* * *

Your arm hurts like hell now. A child cries and you long to help them. No one comes. But Mark still holds you.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have . . ." You're panicking again and it seems important to heal old wounds. "I should have explained. About Karev. About –"

"Ssshhh," he whispers. "Doesn't matter now." He kisses your hair lightly. Somehow you don't mind (don't even really register) the inappropriateness. What would be the point down here in the darkness?

He's right. It doesn't matter. He has Lexie and you have your own life. But you need this (even if, as you suspect, it's really more about picking old scabs than healing old wounds). Perhaps you're preparing yourself. It's melodramatic for a broken arm and a headache, but a few minutes ago the unseen woman to your left stopped moaning and your fears can't stop prodding you with the thought that it wasn't for any reason that was good. "You didn't really love me, though, right? I mean . . . I know you said . . ." You laugh nervously. "But it didn't really mean anything. In the end."

When he doesn't respond, you probe him: "Mark?"

"Addison . . ." he sighs. It has a _don't go there_ quality to it. And he's right; you shouldn't be going there, not even now.

"I –" You begin, intending to apologize and close the subject, but his voice cuts through yours, rough and drained and terrifyingly loving.

"I gave up my best friend for you. You thought that didn't mean anything?"

* * *

You wake, not knowing where you are at first, to sounds of shouting and clattering. Axes are banging, lights bright in your face making you scrunch up your eyes.

You were sleeping. You're still resting against his chest. He's still holding you.

"Ma'am?" A firefighter peers into your face, then shines his torch at Mark and back to you. "How are you doing?"

You nod, forcing yourself upright. "We're doctors," you stammer, trying to look around at Mark for corroboration. "Surgeons. Let us help you."

"That's great, ma'am." He smiles. "But you just sit tight for now. When we know what we've got and someone's assessed your injuries, we'll be glad of your help." He strides off, bending to get under bits of wreckage.

Mark's chin comes to rest on your shoulder. "You okay now, Addie?"

You think about it for a moment. Help is here; you're on the point of going back into the safe, known world where you're useful. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

"Okay then." There's a slight slur to his words and you feel him swallow against the back of your neck, breathe a groan in your ear. His weight falls against you and, as you struggle to turn and face him, he loses consciousness.

You try to think like a doctor. No head trauma is visible in the sweeping torchlight that comes and goes with the emergency workers; nothing obvious except for a few scratches on his face. But his pulse is weak and . . . and . . . you can't think! Your stupid mind won't work and all you can do is cry out.

You think you meant to shout for help, but all that comes out of your mouth is a desperate, "Mark!"

* * *

You called Derek (partly out of duty, partly needing the support) while Mark was having surgery. He flew in as soon as he could (which you think you wanted); and he brought Lexie with him (which you really don't know how to handle).

"Extradural hematoma," Derek says. "If only . . ." You know what he's thinking: if he'd been the surgeon he could have saved Mark's life. He shakes his head against his doubts. "They did everything they could."

He's pacing. When he reaches Lexie, sitting frozen on one of the inappropriately comfortable chairs, he stops and puts a hand on her shoulder.

She's brave; she doesn't cry. For her sake (and a little for your own) you don't either.

"Dr. Shepherd . . .?" It's a nurse: there are papers to sign and Derek is the medical proxy. (The only person Mark acknowledged as next of kin.)

"I should . . ." He trails off, casts a worried glance at Lexie and a pleading one at you.

You nod and he follows the nurse.

But left with Lexie, all that occurs to you is to offer coffee. (The hours-old Styrofoam cup is still in your hand, empty now and partially shredded.) "Would you like . . .?" She looks up and you gesture towards the machine.

She shakes her head. You stand up and finally discard the cup in the trash, mostly just to get rid of it, partly to put a barrier between your grief (the cup now seems bound up with it) and hers. She has the greater claim, the greater heartbreak (probably).

You hate yourself a little for this, but you almost envy her. Right now you'd trade with her in a second for fresh, raw, guiltless grief over the memory of never trying.

_Of course I thought it didn't mean anything_, you argue with him in your head. _You're Mark Sloan. I've known you half my life and nothing you do__** ever**__ means anything._

Except when he gave up his best friend for you. Except when he held you in a dark subway.

Except that, once, he loved you.

"He loved you," you say awkwardly butting into your thoughts and the outer silence. It comes as no surprise when she flinches.

She swallows. "You were with him," she says softly. She nods, reassuring herself: the man she loved hadn't been alone. But you can see the pain there, the questions, the almost-hatred for the woman who came first, didn't want him, but still got to share the last conscious moments of his life.

"He loved _you_," you repeat in a firm, quiet voice and lower yourself carefully into the seat next to hers. There are levels of reality here, but her truth is the present one.

"I love him too," Lexie whispers. Her eyes fill with tears, but still she wipes them away. "Was he . . . in pain?"

"No," you insist. "He said he had a headache, that's all. He wasn't in pain." You hope you're right; you hope his pain wasn't something else you failed to notice until it was too late.

"That's good," she says. "It's good he wasn't in pain." She takes in a sharp breath and worries at her lips with her fingers. "He was excited. About giving the paper." She almost smiles. "_Show the bastards it's not all facelifts_, he said." She swallows again. "It's good," she says deliberately, "that he wasn't alone."

By some impulse (if you'd thought about it, you wouldn't have done it) you take her hand. She tenses at first and you expect her to pull away, but her hand softens, allowing the contact, even needing it as she adjusts to the new world she lives in.

"I _would_ like some," she says. "Coffee, that is."

You gently disentangle your hand, get up and walk towards the machine.

"_You okay now, Addie?"_

"_Yes. Yes, I think so."_

"_Okay then."_

You told him you were okay; those were the last words he heard you say. So, yes, you are. You have to be.

Except that you wish the last words he'd heard you say were _I loved you too._


End file.
